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His side-board glitter'd with imagin'd plate;
And his proud fancy held a vast estate.

As on a time he pass'd the vacant hours,
In raising piles of straw and twisted bowers;
A poet enter'd, of the neighbouring cell,
Aud with fix'd eyes observ'd the structure well;
A sharpen'd skewer cross his bare shoulders bound
A tatter'd rag, which dragg'd upon the ground.

The banker cry'd, "Behold my castle-walls,
My statues, gardens, fountains, and canals;
With land of twenty thousand acres round!
All these I sell thee for ten thousand pound.”

The bard with wonder the cheap purchase saw,
So sign'd the contract (as ordains the law).

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The banker's brain was cool'd, the mist grew
The visionary scene was lost in air.
He now the vanish'd prospect understood,
And fear'd the fancied bargain was not good:
Yet, loath the sum entire should be destroy'd,
"Give me a penny, and thy contract's void."
The startled bard with eye indignant frown'd.
"Shall I, ye gods," he cries, "my debts com-
pound!"

So saying, from his rug the skewer takes,
And on the stick ten equal notches makes;
With just resentment flings it on the ground;
“There, take my tally of ten thousand pound!"

EPISTLE VIII.

MARY GULLIVER

ΤΟ

CAPTAIN LEMUEL GULLIVER.

ARGUMENT.

THE captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr. Sympson's in the country; Mrs. Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulating, soothing, and tenderly-complaining epistle.

WELCOME, thrice welcome, to thy native place! -What, touch me not? What, shun a wife's embrace?

Have I for this thy tedious absence borne,
And wak'd and wish'd whole nights for thy return?
In five long years I took no second spouse;
What Redriff wife so long hath kept her vows?
Your eyes, your nose, inconstancy betray,
Your nose you stop, your eyes you turn away.
"Tis said, that thon should'st cleave unto thy wife;
Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for life.
Hear, and relent! hark, how thy children moan!
Be kind at least to these-they are thy own!
Be bold, and count them all; secure to find
The honest number that you left behind.
See how they pat thee with their pretty paws;
Why start you? are they snakes? or have they
claws?

Thy Christian seed, our mutual flesh and bone:
Be kind at least to these-they are thy own!

Biddel', like thee, might farthest India rove;
He chang'd his country, but retains his love:

There's captain Pannel', absent half his life,
Comes back, and is the kinder to his wife;
Yet Pannel's wife is brown, compar'd to me,
And mistress Biddel sure is fifty-three!

Not touch me! never neighbour call'd me slut:
Was Flimnap's name more sweet in Lilliput?
I've no red hair, to breathe an odious fume;
At least, thy consort's cleaner than thy groom.
Why then that dirty stable-boy thy care?
What mean those visits to the sorrel mare?
Say, by what witchcraft, or what demon led,
Preferr'st thou litter to the marriage-bed!

Some say the Devil himself is in that mare:
If so, our dean shall drive him forth by prayer.
Some think you mad; some think you are possest;
That Bedlam and clean straw will suit you best.
Vain means, alas! this phrenzy to appease !
That straw, that straw, would heighten the disease.
My bed (the scene of all our former joys,
Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys)
Alone I press; in dreams I call my dear,
I stretch my hand; no Gulliver is there!
I wake, I rise, and, shivering with the frost,
Search all the house: my Gulliver is lost!
Forth in the streets I rush with frantic cries,
The windows open; all the neighbours rise:
"Where sleeps my Gulliver? O tell me where !"
The neighbours answer, "With the sorrel mare !"
At early morn, I to the market haste
(Studious in every thing to please thy taste);
A curious fowl and 'sparagus I chose

(For I remember'd you were fond of those):
Three shillings cost the first, the last seven groats;
Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.

Others bring goods and treasure to their houses,
Something to deck their pretty babes and spouses;
My only token was a cup like horn,

That's made of nothing but a lady's corn.
"Tis not for that I grieve; no, 'tis to see
The groom and sorrel mare preferr'd to me!

These for some moments when you deign to quit,
And (at due distance) sweet discourse admit,
'Tis all my pleasure thy past toil to know,
For pleas'd remembrance builds delight on woe.
At every danger pants thy consort's breast,
And gaping infants squall to hear the rest.
How did I tremble when, by thousands bound,
I saw thee stretch'd on Lilliputian ground!
When scaling armies climb'd up every part,
Each step they trod I felt upon my heart.
But, when thy torrent quench'd the dreadful
blaze,

| King, queen, and nation, staring with amaze,
Full in uy view how all my husband came!
And what extinguish'd theirs, increas'd my flame.
Those spectacles, ordain'd thine eyes to save,
Were once my present; Love that armour gave.
How did I mourn at Bolgolam's decree!
For, when he sign'd thy death, he sentenc'd me.

When folks might see thee all the country round
For sixpence, I'd have given a thousand pound.
Lord! when that giant babe that head of thine
Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!
When in the marrow-bone I see thee ramin'd,
Or on the house-top by the monkey cramm'd,
The piteons images renew my pain,
And all thy dangers I weep o'er again.

1 Names of the sea-captains mentioned in the Travels.

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But on the maiden's nipple when you rid,
Pray Heav'n 'twas all a wanton maiden did!
Glumdalclitch too!-with thee I mourn her case:
Heaven guard the gentle girl from all disgrace!
O may the king that one neglect forgive,
And pardon her the fault by which I live!
Was there no other way to set him free?
My life, alas! I fear, prov'd death to thee.

O teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame!
Teach me to woo thee by thy best-lov'd name.
Whether the style of Grildrig please thee most,
So call'd on Brobdingnag's stupendous coast,
When on the monarch's ample hand you sate,
And halloo'd in his ear intrigues of state;
Or Quinbus Flestrin more endearment brings,
When, like a mountain, you look'd down on kings;
If ducal Nardac, Lilliputian peer,

Or Glumblum's humbler title soothe thy ear;
Nay, would kind Jove my organs so dispose,
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm thro' the nose,
I'd call thee Houyhnhnm, that high-sounding name,
Thy children's noses all should twang the same.
So might I find my loving spouse, of course,
Endued with all the virtues of a horse.

EPISTLE IX.

BOUNCE TO FOP.

FROM A DOG AT TWICKENHAM, TO A DOG AT COURT.

To thee, sweet Fop, these lines I send,
Who, though no spaniel, am a friend,
Though once my tail, in wanton play,
Now frisking this and then that way,
Chanc'd, with a touch of just the tip,
To hurt your lady-lap-dog-ship;

Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off,
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

Fop! you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg;
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can stoop to pick up strings and sticks.
We country dogs love nobler sport,
And scorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where'er you come,
To fart and piss about the room,
To lay your head in every lap,

And when they think not of you-snap:
The worst that Envy, or that Spite,
E'er said of me, is, I can bite;
That sturdy vagrants, rogues in rags,
Who poke at me, can make no brags;
And that to touze such things as flutter,
To honest Bounce is bread and butter.

While you and every courtly fop
Fawn on the Devil for a chop;
I've the humanity to hate

A butcher, though he brings me meat:
And, let me tell you, have a nose
(Whatever stinking fops suppose)
That, under cloth of gold or tissue,
Can smell a plaster, or an issue.
Your pilfering lord, with simple pride,
May wear a pick-lock at his side:
My master wants no key of state,

For Bounce can keep his house and gate.

When all such dogs have had their days,
As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays:
When pamper'd Cupids, beastly Veni's,
And motley, squinting Harlequini's';
Shall lick no more their lady's breech,
But die of looseness, claps, or itch;
Fair Thames, from either echoing shore,
Shall hear and dread my manly roar.

See Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd,
With thundering offspring all around,
Beneath, beside me, and at top,
A hundred sons! and not one Fop.
Before my children set your beef,
Not one true Bounce will be a thief;
Not one without permission feed
(Though some of J's hungry breed);
But whatsoe'er the father's race,
From me they suck a little grace:
While your fine whelps learn all to steal,
Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

My eldest-born resides not far
Where shines great Strafford's glittering star;
My second (child of Fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian gates;

A third majestically stalks

(Happiest of dogs!) in Cobham's walks:
One ushers friends to Bathurst's door,
One fawns at Oxford's on the poor.

Nobles, whom arms or arts adorn,
Wait for my infants yet unborn.
None but a peer of wit and grace
Can hope a puppy of my race:
And, oh! would Fate the bliss decree
To mine, (a bliss too great for me)
That two my tallest sons might grace,
Attending each with stately pace
Iülus' side, as erst Evander's',

To keep off flatterers, spies, and panders;
To let no noble slave come near,
And scare lord Fannies from his ear:
Then might a royal youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a friend-or two;
A treasure, which, of royal kind,
Few but himself deserve to find;
Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)
Shall wag her tail within the grave.

And though no doctors, Whig or Tory ones,
Except the sect of Pythagoreans,
Have immortality assign'd

To any beast but Dryden's hind3:
Yet master Pope, whom Truth and Sense
Shall call their friend some ages hence,
Though now on loftier themes he sings,
Than to bestow a word on kings,
Has sworn by Styx, the poet's oath,
And dread of dogs and poets both,
Man and his works he'll soon renounce,
And roar in numbers worthy Bounce.

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WRITTEN IN 1709.

THE Vulgar notion of poetic fire

Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire,
Nor constant studies the bright bays acquire;
And that high flights the unborn bard receives,
And only Nature the due laurel gives:
But you, with innate shining flames endow'd,
To wide Castalian springs point out the god;
Through your perspective we can plainly see
The new-discover'd road of poetry;
To steep Parnassus you direct the way

So smooth, that venturous travellers cannot stray,
But with unerring steps rough ways disdain,
And, by you led, the beauteous summit gain,
Where polish'd lays shall raise their growing fames,
And with their tuneful guide enroll their honour'd

names.

EPISTLE XI.

TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY ERIEND
WILLIAM LOWNDS, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO,
CALLED THE LAND-TAX BILL.

WHEN poets print their works, the scribbling

crew

Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew:
Can meagre Poetry such fame deserve?
Can Poetry, that only writes to starve ?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force, to sing the man,
Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great Lownds's praise should swell the trump of
Fame,

And rapes and wapentakes resound his name!
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown
By singing every Grecian chief and town;
Sure Lownds's prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and

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Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not poet born and bred.
Or dost thou boast th' historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the acts of worthy men?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich miser tremble o'er his cash.
What on the drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee,
Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea;
While thou thro' Britain's distant isle shalt spread,
In every hundred and division read.
Critics in classics oft interpolate,

But every word of thine is fix'd as fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.
Some may, perhaps, to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unassisted by a friend):
But thou shalt live a year, in spite of Fate;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower:
But in thy prose a greater force is found;
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poisonous seed.
Thy labours, Lownds, can greater wonders do;
Thou raisest armies, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy annals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way;
When once they're rais'd, they're cursed hard to

EPISTLE XII.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH SOME LAMPREYS.

WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion;
No matter what the gift they sent,
The lady saw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,

Took the boar's head her hero gave her;
Nor could the bristly thing affront her;
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame.
Some by a snip of woven hair,

In posied lockets, bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches

Have sprung from diamond rings and watches!
But hold a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a poet's pocket;
He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then send lampreys? Fie, for shame! 'Twill set a virgin's blood on flame. This to fifteen a proper gift!

1 Dr. William Coward, a physician of some emi-I nence. He was author of a great variety of treaises on various subjects, medical, poetical, and religious. The latter having been principally of a sceptical nature, he is generally ranked amongst the deistical writers. N.

It might lend sixty-five a lift.

I know your maiden aunt will scold, And think my present somewhat bold. see her lift her hands and eyes: "What; eat it, niece; eat Spanish flies! Lamprey's a most immodest diet: You'll neither wake nor sleep in quiet. Should I to-night eat sago-cream, "Twould make me blush to tell my dream:

[lay.

If I eat lobster, 'tis so warming,
That every man I see looks charming.
Wherefore had not the filthy fellow
Laid Rochester upon your pillow?
I vow and swear, I think the present
Had been as modest and as decent

"Who has her virtue in her power? Fach day has its unguarded hour, Always in danger of undoing,

A prawn, a shrimp, may prove our ruin!
"The shepherdess, who lives on sallad,
To cool her youth, controls her palate.
Should Dian's maids turn liquorish livers,
And of huge lampreys rob the rivers,
Then, all beside each glade and visto,
You'd see nymphs lying like Calisto.

"The man, who meant to heat your blood, Needs not himself such vicious food-"

In this, I own, your aunt is clear,
I sent you what I well might spare:
For, when I see you, (without joking)
Your
eyes, lips, breasts, are so provoking,
They set my heart more cock-a-hoop,
Than could whole seas of craw-fish soup.

EPISTLE XIII.

TO A LADY,

ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA. fire!

WHAT ecstasies her boso
How her eyes languish with desire!
How blest, how happy, should I be,
Were that fond glance bestow'd on me!
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a china jar.

China's the passion of her soul:
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her rest.

Some gems collect; some medals prize,
And view the rust with lovers' eyes;
Some court the stars at midnight hours;
Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers:
But every beauty I can trace

In Laura's mind, in Laura's face;
My stars are in this brighter sphere,
My lily and my rose is here.

Philosophers, more grave than wise,
Hurt science down in butterflies;
Or, fondly poring on a spider,
Stretch human contemplation wider.
Fossils give joy to Galen's soul;
He digs for knowledge, like a mole;
In shells so learn'd, that all agree
No fish that swims knows more than he!
In such pursuits if wisdom lies,
Who, Laura, shall thy taste despise?

When I some antique jar behold,
Or white, or blue, or speck'd with gold;
Vessels so pure, and so refin'd,
Appear the types of woman-kind:
Are they not valued for their beauty,
Too fair, too fine, for houshold duty?
With flowers and gold and azure dy'd,
Of every house the grace and pride?
How white, how polish'd is their skin,
And valued most when only seen!

She, who before was highest priz'd,

Is for a crack or flaw despis'd.

I grant they're frail; yet they're so rare,
The treasure cannot cost too dear!
But man is made of coarser stuff,
And serves convenience well enough;
He's a strong earthen vessel, made
For drudging, labour, toil, and trade;
And, when wives lose their other self,
With ease they bear the loss of delf.

Husbands, more covetous than sage,
Condemn this china-buying rage;

They count that woman's prudence little,
Who sets her heart on things so brittle.
But are those wise men's inclinations
Fix'd on more strong, more sure foundations?
If all that's frail we must despise,

No human view or scheme is wise.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They swell like bubbles, shine, and break.
A courtier's promise is so slight,

'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure's sure? The miss you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your sleep.
The man who loves a country-life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And, if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like china sold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly choose the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.

EISTLE XIV.

ON

A MISCELLANY OF POEMS.

TO BERNARD LINTOTT.

Ipsa varietate tentamus efficere ut alía aliis, quædam fortasse omnibus placeant. Plin. Epet.

As when some skilful cook, to please each guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his dish with different sorts of fare,
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,

To feast at once the taste, the smell, and sight.
So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;

The Muses' olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Would'st thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Muses in the piece conspire;
The lyric bard must strike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some pages with melodious woe;
Let not your amorous songs too numerons prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satire must interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satire! the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.

Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let short-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line.

Translations should throughout the work be sown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own;
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain;
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the listening ear with tales of love.
Let every classic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design;
Through various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the source of joy below,

From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end pursues,
And only change.th' expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live;
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings;
"Anacreon lives," they cry, "th' harmonious swain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain,
Tis he-our lost Anacreon lives again."
But, when th' illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the god of love,
Like Maro's Muse, he takes a loftier flight,
And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's sight
If thou would'st have thy volume stand the test,
And of all others be reputed best,

Let Congreve teach the listening groves to mourn, As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.

Let Prior's Muse with softening accents move,
Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love:
Or let his fancy choose some jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream;
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenser's strains.
Waller in Granville lives; when Mira sings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the sounding strings,
With sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly sense adorns his easy lines.

On Addison's sweet lays Attention waits,
And Silence guards the place while he repeats;
His Muse alike on every subject charms,
Whether she paints the god of love, or arms:
In him pathetic Ovid sings again,

And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.

Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song, Sense flows in easy numbers from his tongue; Great Phoebus in his learned son we see, Alike in physic, as in poetry.

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When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure Amidst the plains, the murmuring streams, and groves,

Attentive Echo, pleas'd to hear his songs, Through the glad shade each warbling note prolongs;

His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgment far out shoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.

From these successful bards collect thy strains;
And praise with profit shall reward thy pains:
Then, while calves-leather-binding bears the sway,
And sheep-skin to its sleeker gloss gives way ;
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Than Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter;

While print-admirers careful Aldus choose, Before John Morphew, or the weekly news; So long shall live thy praise in books of fame, And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name.

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IN IMITATION OF THE POLLIO OF VIRGIL

YE sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite:
Not all in shades and humble cots delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the distant grounds
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds;
Th' attentive swain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What sudden news alarms the waking Morn?
To the glad squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye stags, and all ye beasts of chase;
This hour destruction brings on all your race:
See the pleas'd tenants duteons offerings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the ponderous tankard flovs,
And old October reddens every nose.

Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand,
Kiss his moist lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the shrill horn's echoing sounds,
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley shall in paternal acres grow;
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flowers,
To give metheglin for his morning-hours;
For him the clustering hop shall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.

His sire's exploits he now with wonder hears,
The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears;
How, when youth strung his uerves and warm'd his
He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains. [veins,
He leads the staring infant through the hall,
Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall;

See, in Swift's works, a letter from Mr. Gay, dated June 8, 1714. N.

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